Daughter Of the Bat: The Collector
by Nerdy Lyss
Summary: Delilah Wayne is trying to pick up the pieces. It's been a year since the death of Batman and the only thing that's certain is that everything has changed. The Collector has come calling, proof that there's nothing more dangerous than blood. But can the team find their footing before Gotham is hurled into chaos? Daughter of the Bat Sequel.
1. Gone

Sequel to Daughter of the Bat: Don't Tell

* * *

He told me he was proud of me once. _Once_. I would've given anything just to know he cared that I even existed. Too late now. If he could see me now—God, I don't care. I can't think about that right now. Why does it matter? He's gone. And the little girl who would've followed him to Hell and back? She's gone too.

Right now, I've got Special Agent Scott up against the penthouse door, breathless, and half undone, the second his shirt buttons scatter on the floor, I know, I've got him right where I want him. He tastes like champagne and menthols and honestly? He's a terrible kisser.

I know what they say about me. Apples falling from the tree and the like. The second I peel the champagne flute from his fingers, it's clear he knows too. He doesn't need a trail of clothing or a silhouette against a brightly burning city to know what comes next.

"Jesus." Scott murmurs. His hands aren't unkind, but the feel of someone else's touch still makes me hesitate. There's a flicker of acknowledgment in his glossy black eyes, but before he can utter a sound, I push him into the bed, the little secret he thought he caught? It's long gone. It's a shame he's such an unfortunate kisser because that smile could definitely melt a few hearts.

"Jesus?" I say, easing my weight against him. "Oh, you don't want to ask for him just yet."

"Is this the part where you ask if my soul is for sale? Because you, Delilah Wayne could be the Devil. His words feel like nothing more than a rumble. But he's still lucid enough to reach for the buttons of the lacey top I've kept on.

Very few people have ever seen my scars. And it's going to stay that way. "Is it for sale?" Yeah, he's still a bad kisser.

"I didn't think you were in that kind of business."

"Gotham's my city. It's all my business." I murmur, but he doesn't respond. Sitting still, I can feel his breath whispering against my face. His eyes are closed. Wait for it—a snore. " _Finally_."

The second my feet touch the marble floor, I can't help but shudder, but when I catch movement, I pull my foot up from the floor. Watching the coppery cobra slither out from under the bed, I can feel my lungs going still. _It's not really there, remember?_ With a hiss, I can see everything sharp and dangerous.

My fingers make a quick grab for one of my shoes. "Piss off." I hiss back, watching it disappear as my shoe clatters to the floor. Gone. It's been five years since Damian put me in the Lazarus pit and I'm still…"Keep a lid on your pets, Mom." I snap, barely glancing at the woman who's standing on the balcony. She's not there either. It's all in my head. I think.

I can hear the soft stick of my feet as I weave my way back to the front door of the penthouse and the satchel that Agent Scott has left there. Peeking inside, my muscles loosen. It's all here. I'll see the end of the Black Glove even if it kills me.

* * *

"Who is that piece of eye candy you've got in your bed?"

 _Sam._ "Special Agent Christian Scott." The second the redhead slides a Grande sized latte beside me, I can't help but melt. Taking an appreciative sip, I glance at her. She and Barbra are looking more and more alike. "What time is it?

"Yeah, he's special alright. Especially yummy." I said the sisters looked alike. Unlike her older sister, Samantha Cleary has no filter. "Quarter after Seven."

"Shit." I'm up and out of my chair. Scott should be waking up soon. Without missing a beat, Sam plucks up the glasses that've been left out while I take the half-empty champagne bottle to the sink.

"What a waste of Don Perignon." She laments, hoisting herself onto the counter as we both watch the laced substance spin down the drain. "Your dad didn't sleep with half the women Gotham thinks he did."

 _And now you're doing the same things._ The bottle slips and spills across the counter, forcing Sam to abandon her post. I reach for the first thing I can to clean the mess. "How's your mom?"

"Del, that's the electric bill for the manor."

And now it's sopping. I can only sigh when I hear the slow shuffling of feet. Oh, now the awkward part.

"Still a jailbird," Sam grumbles taking a sip of her coffee. She quickly turns around, catching Agent Scott as he's oh, so quietly sliding back into his coat. "Good morning."

"Morning…"

"I'm Sam. The roommate and friend. I guess I missed the party."

Before the man can say anything, I slide an aspirin across the counter and rip a bottle of water out of the fridge. "You weren't invited."

"You're no fun."

"That's a matter of debate." Scott utters. "How are you even functioning?"

"Carefully," I say, tucking my robe just a smidge tighter when I hear the whirr of the elevator. I can see Scott pulling a pen from his satchel, in the instant I hear shoes tapping on the floor, he writes a number across my hand.

He slips right by Alfred and Damian and goes right in the elevator without another word.

"You're not even ready," Damian notes, when I see the flowers in his hand, my stomach drops to my feet. "You forgot didn't you?"

"Alfred, just leave that. I'll take care of it." The elevator's opening again. "I didn't forget. But I had to finish up what I was doing." I can smell him. I know that's stupid. But I can, and for a second I know it's too late, I can't run to the bedroom without him seeing me. _Tim_. His eyes are still so green. I need to say a lot of things but he only moves out the way. He's not here for me. Break ups are weird.

"She forgot," Dick announces from behind Barbra's wheelchair.

"OKAY! I forgot!"

"Madame!"

"I hope he was worth it."

"Yeah, actually he was," I say, not able to keep the snap from my voice. "I got intel on Jet. I know where the bitch is.". As of today, Bruce Wayne's been dead for a year. None of us are the same. "Just give me ten minutes," I whisper, unable to take the weight of the silence.

But as I make a mad dash for the bedroom, I realize that my lanky little brother is following. "Anything new on Sissy?"

"I've got a few leads." He says keeping himself to the reading chair as I pop behind my dressing screen. "I _will_ find her."

He's been looking for Sissy Collins since the day she was ripped out of her bed at school. It's been two years. Too damn long. But I can't bring myself to say it. And Damian's just too stubborn. We can't stop looking, we just can't.

He's being so quiet. "What's wrong?"

"Why won't you come back to the manor?"

"It's just easier if I'm here." I was responsible for an empire after all.

"It's because Tim's there isn't it?"

"No. Damian, we've talked about this."

I don't want to find him there. I don't want to see my father in all the places I keep expecting him to be. I have enough ghosts following me. I don't want Batman to be one of them.

Reaching for a shirt, I can't help but pause as diamond printed snake slithers down from the shelf. _Close your eyes._ The second I'm back in my closet, there's nothing at my feet but shoes and fallen hangers. I can't chance seeing Dad at every turn. I'm already losing my mind.

"You want to follow up on those leads tonight?"

"I'm going to assume that's a rhetorical question and not just a stupid one."

* * *

The container reeked of sweat and urine. Back pressed against the metal of the container, Anabel "Sissy" Collins kept herself as small as she could, taking one deep sour breath at a time. Before her there was nothing but darkness, and yet, the girl knew she wasn't alone. The heat of other bodies had all but made the sweat drip down her back, but she refused to remove her hoodie- her brother's hoodie.

Had it been hours? Days? Weeks? She couldn't tell. She only knew the soft ebb and fall of sobbing. But now? Now the container was silent. Maybe the crying ones were far too exhausted or like her, too dehydrated.

Her hands ached, some fingers refused to bend. Broken perhaps. She wasn't sure. Anabel only knew one thing. The second those doors opened and light filled the container nothing was good was going to come of it.

"I want them separated by gender and age." One by one the pressure inside the container gave, letting the light reach the corners. "You. Get up." Oh. He meant her. When the girl couldn't unfold her stiff legs fast enough, the beast with tattoos reached down and yanked her to her feet.

"How old are you?" He expected her to speak? Was he kidding? She hadn't spoken in years! Anabel just lifted her head, catching the man's bottomless eyes. "AGE?!" Head hitting the wall, Anabel could only wince, feeling her stomach roll when she realized her feet weren't touching the floor.

"What's this?" _The book!_ Seeing it there in his giant hand, the child reached for it, only for the man to hold it out of her reach. "You think you're being cute, don't you?"

Nope. And he was going to be sure of it. The second her pointy little elbow hit his eye, she hit the floor, snatching the book when it fell to that filthy floor. "You little bitch!" The book flew from her fingers the second she hit the wall, the only audible noise to come out of her was a gasp.

"What's the problem, Ubu?"

"Mistress Talia."

She hadn't seen the woman either, her hair all but glowing in the light as she carefully picked up the book, lips pursing as if it somehow surprised her. She didn't expect this Talia to open it either but she did. Her fingers frozen on the inside of the cover. Her head snapped up. "This is your book?"

"I pulled it from her pocket," Ubu reported, letting Anabel slide to the floor.

The second the woman crouched in front of her, the girl snatched the book out of her hands, clutching it for all she was worth. It only made Talia's deep dark eyes widen. But then there was something crawling across her face that she couldn't decipher. Soft and mischievous. "Can you walk on those taped feet of yours?"

Anabel nodded.

"Good." She whispered. "Let's see what Damian sees in you." With that, the woman rose to her feet. "I'll take this one."

"I don't think she speaks."

"Perfect. Find Cassandra and send her to me. Luck just smiled on us."


	2. Empty Spaces

"Del-"

"Get out of my way, Clark." His hands are heavy, heavy enough to squash the delicate blood vessels beneath my skin. He just wants to keep me from seeing. He's just being kind.

"Please." The syllable cracks, forcing every muscle to ache with dread. He's broken. God help us. Only when I swallow at the air does he let me twist away. This can't be happening. This isn't happening. But even as I bend at the waist and force myself to take bigger deeper breaths, all I can taste is the sour tang of blood.

Above us, the shadows quiver, giving to a wayward chirp or flutter frail wings. The colony was returning from the darkness. But now? Now the chair at the bat-computer is empty. It'll always be empty. "Let me see him." I croak, aware that one of those cement hands is laying on my back.

"You don't want to see him like this. It'll ruin every memory you have."

Memory? My father? Bruce Patrick Wayne – Batman—nothing but a memory? My throat's tight at the thought and yet the only thing I can focus on is the feel of Clark's steady hand as I let my eyes rest on the battered utility belt that was tossed to the side. I know what Clark Kent is trying to do, even as I stumble for the belt. He's trying to protect me. He's trying to save me. He's just being Clark. He's just being… _kind_.

I can't say the same.

The second my fingers find their prize, I let the belt fall to my feet. "You couldn't save him." The weight on my spine is gone. He's so sidelined, that all I find when I whip around is a defeated man hanging on his bones. He's weary, torn and bloody. But _he's_ still _alive_. Even in the low light, I can see the lines of the dark stains that mar the blue fabric of his suit. Wayne blood. Dad's. Damian's. Mine. Instead of reaching for him, I open my fingers, revealing the green-stoned ring. "What makes you think you can save me?! I'm a big girl, Clark. I'm _his_ girl. Don't make me prove it. Move the hell out of my way!"

"Jesus Christ, Del, you can't just do that to him!"

Dick's snapping is forgotten the second Clark begins to fold, shielding himself from the poisonous little gem. My lungs may be unwilling to move as the long white sheet comes into view, but my feet pull me forward. I don't reach for the ring when it slides out of my fingers and clinks against the metal floor. Instead, my fingers hesitate along the edge of the sheet, trembling. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Damian lifting his solemn face, his hand is cold and hard, much bigger than I remember, but together we peel the sheet back.

The smell of burned hair and charred flesh now made sense, but no acclimation could keep back the bile. I knew his face. But now? Half of it was gone, given to blackened bone. " _Oh, Dad_..." Throat swelling, I force my gaze to the wriggling bats above us and wait for the heavy ache to leave. It's only when Damian pulls the sheet back over our father's corpse I can look back down. "Are you sure that Jezebel Jet was involved?" I manage.

Maybe the ache is permanent.

"She was there, Del." Clark rasped as Dick helped him back to his feet. "I saw her myself."

"She sold him out," Damian grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "The Black Glove ambushed him." He doesn't flinch when his eyes find mine.

"You better get to her quick, Clark," I said, giving Damian the slightest of nods. "Because if we get to her first, there won't be anything left to find."

* * *

"Madame? Madame? _Delilah_?"

"Hey, Idiot!" The second Damian's fist landed hard on her thigh, Deliah found herself back into the stifling cab with the smell of day old-roses. Squinting into the sunlight, she frowned finding that Alfred had opened the door.

"I'm sorry, Alfred." She whispered, reaching back to land a blow on the teenager's leg before slipping out into the blustery afternoon.

"No apologies necessary."

"Walk me up, Old Man," Del said brightly, rubbing her hands over Alfred's thin bony fingers as she links arms with him, more than ready to blame their slowness on her heels rather than his cane.

"It feels like it was just yesterday," Alfred said, as they weaved their way through the frost-coated grave markers. "Do you think Master Jason will show?"

Delilah's fingers stopped tracing the rippling scars on the man's hand, and even though her eyes are wandering up the hill, it's his stalling that forces her to look at him. The man was aging with equal parts grace and stubbornness. "Do you want him to?" she asks, as if the question alone will get him moving again.

"I only hope."

Now Delilah is the one to pause, her shoulders slumping as a sigh works through her. "Why?! Alfred, you could've died. And all because he was throwing a tantrum!"

"He was grieving in his own way."

"Yeah, well, grief is not a reason to blow shit up!"

"You know he didn't mean for explosions to affect the manor."

"But they did." She huffed, twisting to look the man in the eye. "You could've died in that fire." She said, catching the man's hollow cheeks with her bare hands. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you too." She whispered, taking Alfred's arm once more. "I'd really give Jason a reason to grieve."

"Thank goodness, for Master Damian then," He said gently as they began trekking up the hill. "You know he loved Master Jason like a son."

"I know, Alfred. But that doesn't make it-" Reaching the unmarked, plot, Del bit her tongue, realizing the engravers were among them, replacing the plastic label that marked her father's burial plot. Seeing the smooth gray stone perched there only made her chest that much heavier.

 _Anonymous_.

 _"It's not fair! Not even the rest of world knows he's dead, Del!"_

Hearing Jason's voice in her ear, she couldn't help but look over the somber faces, half hoping she might find Jason skulking in the distance. But there was nothing but tired headstones and glossy black birds hopping through the grass. _You asshole! You should be here!_

"Everything should be in order, Ms. Wayne." A worker said, drawing her attention back to the people around her. "I wouldn't lean on it, the cement is still setting, but it should set quickly."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you_ , it's not often someone commissions a marker for someone they don't know."

She could only give the man an aching smile as she settled between Sam and Alfred. _Oh, you don't know the half of it._ Watching the men wander down the hill, she wanted to call out, she wanted to say, _But I did know him! We all did!_ Instead, she could only look back at the marker, letting her stomach twist up in knots. "Who are we missing?" She asked, aware that Dick was raising his brow.

"Tim."

"He's coming," Sam said, jerking her head down to the road. "Or _they_ are." Stephanie Brown's blonde hair was like a beacon in the autumn sun. She wasn't hard to miss, nor was roundness of her belly. "Ex-squeeze-me? What-"

"It's not his," Del muttered, sliding her eyes to the dirt when the girl stood on her toes to peck Tim on the cheek. "It's an ex-boyfriend. Long story."

"Oh, there's a bit of dirt you forgot to tell me."

" _Sam_." Barbra chided, throwing a flower at the girl.

"Tell me later when she's not around," Sam added, tilting her head as Stephanie slipped back into the car, leaving Tim to climb the hill alone, the wind picking petals off the flowers in his grip.

"She didn't want to come say hi?" Sam asked, earning herself an elbow in the ribs.

"I think I liked you better when you were visiting your family in Ireland," Tim grumbled as he bent down to add roses to the growing pile. "At least then you minded your own business."

Before the girl could retort, Dick reached over and covered Sam's mouth with his hand. "Since we're all here, Del, is there anything you'd like to say?"

H _e shouldn't have died! We should've been there! It's torn us all apart and I don't know how to put us back together! He went out there because someone had taken his family from him long ago, why couldn't he see the one he'd built for himself? Why weren't we enough?! Why wasn't I?_

Delilah shook her head. "No, I...no. I don't want to say anything." She mumbled, grateful that he didn't press harder. Instead, she just listened, listened to the stories they told, listened to the thick words wet with laughter, listened to the shaking of branches with their wet leaves. Sometimes it almost sounded like batwings. She used to love that sound.

* * *

I wonder when he knew I was there. Did he hear my bare feet sticking to the steps? Did he spot my shadow creeping along the wall? Or maybe he caught me in a moment when I couldn't look at my destination but rather had tilted my head to needle pointed stalactites and the bits of darkness that rippled around them, reminding me that it was alive with every squeak and every wayward bat. Maybe he hadn't noticed me at all.

It was the rattle of tossed glasses that made me pause. He didn't pull those out unless he was dead tired. But now he just seemed tired and frustrated as he rubbed hands over his stubble ridden face. Awash in the light of the giant screen, I was afraid he'd turn, see me there and send me away. It wouldn't have been the first time. But he didn't.

Glancing up, I could feel the air leaving my lungs. I didn't recognize the black and yellow evidence markers that dotted the pictures tiled across the screen, but I knew those walls. I knew those floors, and I'd never forgotten the smell of the blood or the feel of the glass sticking into my flesh. The police asked questions. Dad never did. Not one.

Afraid I might turn back, I ran for it, every muscle in my father's body jolting forward as I all but scaled his chair and made it into his lap. "Del, What the-" Flustered he leaned forward, and with a maddening click of the keyboard the pictures began to disappear, but not before I spotted my mother's face. One that was bloody, tear marked and squashed beneath an oxygen mask.

She'd almost made it.

But almost doesn't count.

"Can I help you?" He asked once the screen was blank once more.

"No." I chirped, tilting my head at him when he all but sank back into his chair. "Can I help you?"

"You can go back to bed, _that_ would be helpful." He muttered, frowning at me as I reached for his mouse, and clicked on a thumbnail I recognized, covering us both in a brighter happier light. And then I waited. I waited for him to pry me free, I waited for him to close out that vibrant face we both knew, I waited for him to send me back to the world above our heads. But he did none of those things. He just sat there staring at that familiar face as if he were as transfixed as I was.

Curling against his chest, I could feel the rise and fall of his breaths. Steady. Certain. It was his arms that seemed so unsure. Careful as if the weight of them alone could crush me. But I was wrapped in his arms, wrapped in the sound of paper-thin wings beating against the air. "Dad?" I whispered, half afraid my voice would get lost int he thundering sound. "I love you." If my father ever replied, I never heard it. I only felt a kiss as frail as a bat's wing touch my head. "Dad? Why do they leave?"

"To find insects, that sort of business."

"But they come back, right?"

"Didn't you just hear them come flooding back in here? I know you didn't miss that."

"But what if they get lost?"

As warm as the cave was, I remember thinking his fingers were cold when they lifted my chin. At first, he just stared at me, face blank, but then his chest deflated with a sigh. "They'll find their way home. They might get a little... _sidetracked_ , but they'll find their way. Alright?" When I nodded, he leaned forward and kissed me on my forehead once more, the stubble on his chin scraping my skin. It was then he lifted me up and set my feet on the floor. "Back to bed with you."

"You're prickly."

" _Good night_ , Del."

"G'night," I replied, darting for the stairs before I pushed my luck. But I took those steps slowly. I couldn't help but glance back as his chair got further and further away, and my mother's face became nothing but a light shimmering on the cave wall.

* * *

"Hey, can we talk for a second?" Finding herself in Tim's lanky shadow, Del simply cleared her throat and scooted over. He wanted to talk. Didn't he know by now she wasn't all that great at talking? But he eased down beside her anyway, a gesture as familiar as the faint smell of his soap.

"How far along is she?" Delilah asked, scanning the graveyard for other familiar faces. Anything to keep from looking at his. Damian was standing at their grandparents' graves, looking more like a statue himself. Alfred, she noted, was crouched against his cane, brushing the frost out of a monument with his bare hand. Barabra was easy to spot, in the distance, her hair looked like a flame. Her mouth was moving, her hands were going, and yet all she could hear was Tim's jacket scuffing against her mother's gravestone.

"Thirteen weeks?" He answered, his breath forming into a thin cloud before them. "Things are kinda rough." When Delilah's weighty blue eyes landed on him with that arched brow, his teeth sank into the inside of his lip. "Rough for her...I mean." He amended, aware that Del was looking elsewhere once again. "Stephs' the reason I needed to talk to you."

Delilah's fingers stopped plucking at the frost licked grass. "Oh." Was it supposed to sting so much? Collapsing back into her mother's headstone, she set her eyes to the sky and the small shadow of a flickering tongue that was protruding from the top of marker just above their heads. "What can I do?" She uttered, blinking quickly as a copperhead uncurled itself and began working it's bronzed body down the headstone. All she could do was lean back, close her eyes, and pray the weight she felt dripping down her shoulder was made of anything but scales.

"I wanted to see if she could stay at the manor with me. Her mom tossed her out, her dad's not a viable option-"

"Fine."

"I just wanted your permission," Tim added, not sure what to make of the tight word or the way her fingers dug into the earth. "Del, are you okay?"

Glancing at the serpent that had all but sank its teeth into her hand, Delilah took in a sharp breath. If this wasn't real, then why could she feel it?! "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Del, you know you could tell me anything-"

"I said I'm fine, damn it! You got my permission! I don't care what you do! Alright?!" Realizing she'd attracted an audience, Del sighed. "If you need to save her," She whispered, "Then, do it. You don't need my permission for that, Bird Boy." The snake, she noticed, was gone, but there was something under her hand. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to snap. I just-I'm not-not...sleeping very well."

The second his hand touched her bent knee, there was warmth sinking into her chilled bones, but as quick as it came it was gone. "I get it." He mumbled. "Thanks, Del." He was on his feet and she was alone again. Lifting her hand, she found a bright red tulip, though now it'd become slightly squashed.

"Hey, Tim? How did you know?"

"Know what?" He asked, those pale green eyes peering at her from over his shoulder.

"That tulips were my mom's favorite? I never told you-"

"I didn't." He said, twisting about to gesture to the pink rose she hadn't noticed. Come to think of it, it was always roses he left for her mother. "Must've been Alfred." He added before turning back into the wind and heading down to the waiting car below.

 _Or Jason._

* * *

"We need to talk."

"Oh, do we?" Sam asked, her warm breath making foggy clouds on her glasses. Stepping back, he could see the black marble monument before her. The gold inlay all but glittering in the sunlight. _Max Collins. "_ I was just saying hello." She said, stuffing her hands in her pockets once her glasses were back on her face. "Though I don't know how they'd feel about that...since, well, you know."

Since her own mother had aided in the kidnapping and murder of Aaron Collins? Evelyn Cleary might've been the Commissioner's sister. She might've been the little sister that let her brother and his heartbroken wife adopt her child-her first redheaded daughter. She might've been a nurse, a mother, a wife-but she was also desperate. Something that Thomas Elliot took full advantage of. He knew Sam needed new organs to survive, and he needed blue eyes to complete his mask. Who better to use?

Evelyn Cleary was still serving her time at Arkham Asylum. The exact number of suicide watches was a little hazy.

"Max would've been fourteen this year," Tim noted. One of the first victims of the Zesti Cola tampering, and the first person he couldn't save.

The leaves crunch and crinkle under Sam's booted feet as she stepped back to view the entire row with him. "Anabel's nine this year, the same age Max was."

"Yeah..."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Del." When the girl all but whirled around on her heel, he held up his hands. "Has she been acting, I don't know, _weird_ , lately?" He asked, his shoulders sinking with relief as Samantha's face softened.

"She hasn't been the same since her dad died, but you know that." She offered, toeing the leaves at her feet. "But honestly, Tim? I can't make heads or tails of her. She stays up for days on end. If it's not classes, it's the business, if it's not the business, it's bat-related. She's in overdrive all the time. Like she's afraid to sleep." Sam sighed, "I don't know if it's her version of grief, or what, but she hasn't talked about him. Not even an honorable mention."

"Not once?"

"No. Hell, I don't think she's cried at all this year, I mean-it's her _Dad_. She went halfway around the world for him. She would've done anything." Shaking her head at her boots, Sam gave a huffing breath. "She hardly talks about you either, or why you broke it off. I have to pull it out of her. I don't know if you two just fell out of love or what-"

"Loving her was never the problem." He interjected, looking back at the headstones when the Sam lifted her head. "It's complicated."

"Well, my short answer? Yes, she's been acting weird. But why? I don't know. Is that the brand of _weird_ your after?"

"I can't tell," Tim whispered. "And she doesn't trust me enough to say." Listening to a car horn echoing through the trees, Tim turned, but not before pausing, not before giving those black markers one final look. "I'm afraid she's going to come off the rails. And when she does, someone's gonna get hurt."

"Tim! What you said to Dick the other day-about Bruce-are you sure?!"

"What do you think?!" He shouted without looking back.

"I think you're crazy!"

"Crazy is irrelevant!"

 _Says the guy who thinks Bruce is still alive somehow._ "You people have a funny way of dealing with grief."

* * *

"Are you all right, Miss?"

She knew every stick and stone of the estate. She knew about the secret halls and the beams with initials carved from years past. The faces in the paintings were all familiar ghosts like the subtle shift of the house itself. And no matter what furniture or trinkets filled its halls, it could never be full. Now that was certain.

"Do I have to?" Delilah croaked, reminding herself that she and Alfred alone were still standing in the drive.

"No, but I like to think you wouldn't want to miss my pot-roast. You always liked it. I can't say the same for my waffles." When the young woman gave a spark of a laugh and squashed it with her hand, he gave her a rueful smile. "Did you think I didn't notice you feeding them to the dog? That's probably why the poor beast is so fat."

The old man had managed to get her to the door after all. And even though she felt as taut as a guitar string, he never mentioned it. He simply opened the front door and ushered her inside before she could decide to turn and run. Delilah had scarcely begun to sink into the familiarity of the entryway when a baying shattered the quiet. "Tidus!" She cried, crouching as the great Dane came thundering down the staircase with a gray-haired Doberman waddling behind him. "Oh, Jax." she crooned, thankful the old dog still recognized her. "Damian's been feeding you his waffles, hasn't he?"

"Someone's happy to see you," Alfred remarked, as the sound of dog claws clicking on the marble filled the space. "It's only been six months."

"It wouldn't have been fair to bring him to the penthouse-has it really been six months?"

"Yes," Alfred said gravely as the young woman gathered herself, her wandering fingers stroking at the dogs as they continued to circle and whimper around her. "It never stopped you before, you know. I always thought you left him behind because your father was the one who gave him to you. Silly me."

Okay, so maybe Jax wasn't the only thing she left behind. Or the only one. So she did the only thing she could-change the subject. "Have you seen the project files for the old sugar plant? I've torn the office apart and I still can't find them."

"Have you checked your father's briefcase?" Delilah sagged. "I'll take that as a no." He said, turning for the kitchen. "It's still in the master bedroom. Right where he left it."

Left to her own devices, Del turned to the staircase and cursed. She had climbed these stairs hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. She met Dick on these stairs. bumped into Alfred on too many midnights to count. She made sure to learn which steps squeaked, and where to spy from on the landing. She'd spent hours waiting for her father on this staircase. And it's where he always found her.

She didn't want to find him. Not this time.

Reaching a pair of ornate doors, Delilah let her breath loose. The carvings still felt the same beneath her fingers, she knew every knot and ridge she could reach. "He's not in there, Del. Just open the door." She chided to herself, forcing her hand to find one of the metal knobs. And yet she couldn't make it turn. It just rattled with the shaking of her fingers.

 _"Dad? Dad? Daaaad?"_  
 _"Ugh-Wha-What do you want?"_  
 _"Can_ I-can _I sleep with you?"_  
 _"Oh, kid, you're killing me. I knew she spoiled you. You have to sleep in your own bed."_  
 _"But the shadow man's back! Please?!"_  
 _"There's no such thing as-and how do you know it won't just come in here?"  
_ _"It can't be that stupid."_

"Delilah?"

A jolt rolled through her toes and up her spine, forcing the girl to lift her head from the door before she smacked it. "Oh, shit. Alfred, you scared me."

"Allow me." He said gently, his fingers prying hers from the doorknob, silencing the soft rattle. The door gave a bit of a squeak, and he breezed right in, aware that she was still frozen in the doorway. Without any fanfare, he worked around the giant ornate bed, ripped open the closet door and came back with the all too familiar briefcase. "Right where he left it." He announced, watching the young woman look this way and that as she cautiously pulled herself inside.

"You know..." He said slowly as she paused at a long dark dresser. "You probably spent more time in here than he did."

He was right. She'd spent her first night in this room. In her father's bed. In one of his t-shirts even. And for the first month, it was the place she hid. The only place she trusted. And he let her. "I try not to think about it."

"Of course. Miss, you just lost your mother, and you hardly knew your father." Alfred shook his head, watching her pluck up a small white conch shell from the dresser top. "He had a hard time with this room too, I think. It belonged to his parents, after all. The only time he didn't seem to mind was when your mother was here." He said, earning himself a blue-eyed glance.

"Mom always was the band-aid ripping type," Del said, feeling the laugh wiggle over voice as she ran her fingers over the shell. The small ridges had become smooth, rubbed out by the sand, sea and the touch of human hands. "I can't believe this is still here."

"He held onto it from the moment you snuck it into his coat pocket."

"I was four."

"And that's where it stayed. In his pocket." Alfred put in, offering her the briefcase. "Well, when he had pockets."

"Like a good luck charm? Most people just carry pictures of their kids in their wallets."

"Your father was not most people. Why don't you keep it with you?" No sooner had he mentioned it, she put the shell back on the dresser exactly as it was.

"It wasn't that lucky I guess." She said with a sigh, murmuring her thanks as she took the case from him. She didn't bring it up, and he didn't say another word, even as she worked her way down the stairs and set the briefcase by the door. "I can hear Dick, Tim, and Barbra in the den, but where's Damian?" She asked, leading the way into the kitchen.

"Oh, it smells divine in here." The sunlight pouring through the windows felt the same, and yet she knew every tile, every appliance and every inch of counter space was different. Fires always had a way of making a person replace things. Spying a bowl a bowl of mashed potatoes on the counter, Delilah swiped at it with her finger.

"What's this? Out of the food, you little minx! Don't start thinking you're too big for me to tan your hide." He said, pulling the bowl away. "Take a wild guess."

* * *

There was a time when the darkness below the house called to her. There was a time it felt like the safest place she'd ever be. It smelled of earth and water and sometimes she'd catch hints of coffee. It was a place where the darkness wrigged and squeaked and gave to a sound that could rival thunder. The hub of her father's world.

Running her hand over the wall as she eased down the steps, Delilah grimaced to find her fingers marred by soot. If she inhaled deep enough she could still smell the smoke permeating in the corners. "What is this? You don't need this."

"What are you doing-"

The sound of her feet touching the metal floor, seemed so loud without the bat colony to swallow it whole. Sam, she realized, was on her back ripping and tossing cables, fans, and circuit boards out of the new massive computer. Much to Damian's chagrin. "Getting rid of the bullshit!" She snapped back, rolling herself out from under the large frame. "Hey, if you don't like it, find someone else."

"I can always ask the better sister."

"You tried that, remember? It went over like a fart in church."

"He probably forgot to ask her nicely," Del said, aware how badly her voice echoed. It was enough to have them both staring at her.

"I don't do _nice_."

"And that _charming_ personality is why Barb told ya to take a hike," Sam warned, giving a clicking her tongue as she went back to work. "You need to work on your people skills. Your asshole-isms are on point though."

" _Tch_." turning his back on the monstrosity of circuit boards and cable, Damian found that slight silhouette trailing up the platform. There was nothing but superheated metal and a space where their father's suits used to be. He could see those long fingers stretching for something that was no longer there. Catching herself, Del slid to the floor, fingers running over the warped railing as she eased to her back to look up at the ceiling of the cave like she was looking for stars where the stalactites hung.

"I think I liked her better when she was afraid of me," Damian grumbled, leaping over the twisted railing. Sinking into a crouch, he peeked upward watching a thinly winged bat zip across the cavern. "There's only a handful of the left."

"I know the feeling." Del uttered, squinting up at the small clutch of bats before she tilted her head to the teen who seemed to be doing the same. "Did you do all this yourself?" She asked, closing her eyes as if that would banish the thought of their father's world being reduced to ash scarred remnants and dead little creatures.

But the boy said nothing, he only reached into the pocket his grungy slacks and handed her a piece of paper. A list.

"Why didn't you ask..."

"You're never here!" He spat, his pale green eyes narrowing when her fingers curled into his shirt as if that would hold him in place. "And Grayson, I know he doesn't want to be-I can't let his legacy die. I refuse! So screw it, I'll put it all back together by myself if I have to! "

The words all but forced Delilah to sit upright, her thick dark hair frayed and messy from lying on the metal floor. "You idiot." She told him, snatching the list out of his reach as he went for it. "Why can't you just ask without picking a fight?"

"You're the one who falls for it," Damian said dryly, head turning as he caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"Hey, guys, dinner's about to hit the table."

"Steph, C'mon, not the stairs."

"Tim, I'm just pregnant I'm not an invalid."

"Uh-huh. I know but-"

"We'll be up in a second," Del called, silencing the voices as she collapsed against the railing.

"She's here? Like actually here?" If Tim said anything she couldn't hear it over the sound of their feet wandering back up the stairs.

"You know what? I could thank Jason for destroying the elevator." She whispered, aware that Damian was slipping the note out of her pocket, rubbing outlines with his soot-caked fingers. "What are you doing?"

"Prioritizing."

She couldn't help but smirk. The elevator was suddenly on the bottom of the list. Giving the boy a smack on his knee, Del worked herself to his feet. "So these leads, you got any evidence?"

Damian was up in in one fluid motion, leading her to one of the salvaged file cabinets. "Remember the kids from the bust on the Dollmaker?" He asked, whipping out a bag that was stuffed with a sweatshirt. _Gotham Athletic Dept. "_ One of the kids had this with them _._ I remembered that student of yours always wearing wone exactly like it."

"So? A lot of kids wear them." Del said slowly, catching the thing when he threw it at her.

"Look at the tag." He told her as he pulled out a smaller bag.

 _M.C._

"Damian, you've gotta be grasping at straws. I want to find her as bad as you do, but there's no way this was Max's sweatshirt-" When the small bag hit the table in front of her, revealing spindly blonde hairs, the words stuck in her throat. "Did you test them?"

"I'm getting sick of your rhetorical questions." He said, watching the sweatshirt slip out of her arms.

"Damian do you know what this means?!"

"Yeah." He muttered, slamming the drawer closed. "That I can't rip out the Dollmaker's tongue when we visit him tonight. Not if he can tell us where Ana is."


End file.
